


Like-Minds

by orangeCrates



Category: Trusty Bell: Chopin no Yume | Eternal Sonata
Genre: Harm to Animals, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 08:50:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4472996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangeCrates/pseuds/orangeCrates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started with little acts of cruelty.</p><p>It was harmless and everyone wrote it off as 'boys being boys'. Fugue's father had shaken his head and laughed, while everyone else chittered awkwardly.</p><p>Then it had escalated and slowly people realized that he was not quite...right in the head.</p><p>Then, at the funeral of the previous Count of Forte he meets a kindred spirit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like-Minds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ROSEWAR](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ROSEWAR/gifts).



> I hope this is at least close to what you wanted, oktavia.

It started with little acts of cruelty.

It started with kicking over the dish of cream the baker left for the cats and pushing a girl in a new frock over (who did she think she was, to prance around in such a lovely, white frock when she had such a plain face?). It was purposefully pulling the maids' hair when they bent down to do work, putting them within his reach.

It was harmless and everyone wrote it off as 'boys being boys'. Fugue's father had shaken his head and laughed, while everyone else chittered awkwardly.

Then there was the dog. It was a flea bitten mutt that passed by their property one day. There was an iron fence separating it from where Fugue and the maid who was in charge of taking care of him were tossing a ball back and forth. He stopped and watched the dog for a moment, then dropped the ball.

"Young master?" The maid said tentatively, as Fugue stepped closer to the fence. The mutt watched him without running away.

Fugue stopped a few feet from the fence and crouched down to pick up a rock. The maid couldn't anticipate the way he pulled his hand back and threw the rock, striking the dog in the neck.

She ran forward with a cry and grabbed Fugue by the wrist as the dog fled.

"Why did you do that?" She shouted.

Fugue only tilted his head, "It was filthy." He said as if it perfectly justified what he did. Then he turned his head further to look pointedly at where she held him still by the wrist.

She paled, then let go with a stammer and an excuse (one simply did not lay hands on a noble's son, especially not this one). Fugue bent down again, this time picking up a stick and hit her on the face with it.

"Do not touch me again." Then he straightened his sleeve where it had been pulled out of place by the sobbing maid. He looked back to where the dog had been and frowned as he tossed the stick aside.

It started with (not so) harmless acts of cruelty, small and insignificant.

But he had made the dog bleed (the rock had been sharp though he had chosen it for its size and weight and not tested it for sharpness) and that changed everything.

He told his father about the dog, how it came up to the fence and tried to bite him through it and how he had thrown a rock to chase it away. (How the maid had fallen in the scuffle and scraped her cheek, _the poor thing_.)

His father rounded up the dogs in the neighbourhood that fit the description and Fugue pointed out the one.

It was killed, but there wasn't as much satisfaction as when he'd hit it with a rock.

After that, there was poison found in the baker's cream that killed at least three stray cats before he realized. Then it was hiding the silverware and blaming the maids for theft.

The small acts of cruelty became increasingly larger and more frequent until the day his mother caught him setting traps on the estate to catch birds and break their wings.

His father did not laugh and no one said anything (not very loud, but, oh, how they whispered how he wasn't right in the head, _that poor thing_ ).

Then the old Count of Forte died and they went to pay their respects. He was too old now for his mother to hold onto his hand with a firm grip, but she kept casting him _looks_ and that was just foolishness.

Why would he ruin what was perfectly good clothes by doing anything that would cause him to sweat?

The princess (the ruler of Forte did not call himself king because of the stigma attached to the title since Fort Fermata was built but their daughters were always princesses) was crying, but it was her brother, the next (or, rather, current) Count of Forte that interested Fugue.

The boy (and he was too young to be anything else), did not cry. He stared at the coffin as it was being lowered into the ground with impassive eyes. He looked _bored_ and wasn't that just _interesting_.

He'd intended to find the Count, but it was the young Count who found _him_ later when he had gotten (purposefully) separated from his mother.

"I've heard about you." The Count said while he smiled.

Fugue bowed with a flourish, "It seems my reputation precedes me."

"Indeed." The Count said and acknowledges Fugue's bow with a nod of his head. "I have heard they do not let you out much. Did you wonder why your parents brought you today?"

He had, actually, but he only cocked a brow, now, "I had assumed they meant to...socialize me."

The Count laughed and waved a hand, "I told them that I would like it if your whole family came." He tilted his head and smiled a honeyed smile (but sweetness was often used to mask poison, wasn't it?), "my father did believe very strongly in familial bonds."

"Of course."

"Is it true that you cut one of the stablehands?" The Count asked, as if the subject bored him and Fugue felt affronted (this was his _art_ clearly the Count had not heard of the splendid job he had done), but also intrigued. He was use to fear and digust. Disinterest was not a response his 'habits' garnered him.

"Yes. I could relate the details to you, if you wish. If I must say, I had done... _exquisite_ work that time."

The Count only waved him off (and, oh, that made Fugue's blood boil. How dare this little brat dismiss him so? Fugue thinks his pretty face would be much improved with a little blood smeared across it.) "There is no need to bore me with details. After all, men lie all the time. It is in our nature." Then he touched his cheek with one hand (seemed amused by the way Fugue glared at him, "Though if you have so much time on your hand to babble about past conquests, perhaps you'll indulge me in a spar?"

Fugue bowed mockingly, "Your wish is my command."

~ + ~

He lost.

_How could he have lost?_

Fugue stared at the Count, who had his weapon pointed at Fugue's throat while he inspected his fingers as if bored, while Fugue's weapon lay to the side from when he had been disarmed.

He was caught somewhere between fury and _interest_. He had been trained extensively since he was a child and, with his skill and blood-lust no one had ever beaten him.

Yet this...this _child_ had bested him. 

But it was not only that, it was the way he did it, as if Fugue were not a nobleman's son but some lower existence like the mutt he had thrown a rock at years ago (like he might just kill Fugue if he did not prove himself worthy of being alive). It was so familiar to and yet different (more calculated) from Fugue's own way of seeing other people.

It was terrifying and exhilarating (and beautiful).

He was breathless from more than just exertion when the Count (what was his name again? Ah, yes. It was Count _Waltz_ , wasn't it?) looked back at him.

"Well, aren't you interesting." The words were a drawl without dropping his weapon. His purple eyes were alight with a keen sort of interest, like a predator sizing up prey, before he finally lowered his weapon, "You should come work for me. I can give you more interesting targets than servants."

Fugue licked his lips, then slowly, but carefully, went to one knee, "I accept your generous offer."

"Generous." Waltz repeated with a laugh, "Yes. I suppose you could call my offer... _generous._ " Then he held out his hand and Fugue took it and pressed a kiss to the back. When he let go, Waltz's hand shot out and gripped him by the hair, forcing him to tilt his head back. Waltz leaned down, still wearing that sweet-as-poison smile, "I am very generous to those who bring back results." The words were a purr, as harmless as a hidden knife as he leaned close enough their breaths mingled when they breathed, "fail and you will soon see what happens when my... _generosity_ runs out."

There was a cruelty, caught in Waltz's smile and in the painful grip of his fingers in Fugue's hair. It was breathtaking to witness and it makes Fugue's heart skip a beat. He reaches up and, blindly gropes for Walt's shoulder, but does not push him away. He scoffed, "You will not find a worthier person to serve you. I will make all others who serve you appear as if they were nothing more than _trash._ "

"Good," Waltz said, then, abruptly, he pulls away and Fugue was left missing his warmth and the shadows he cast over Fugue's face. "See that you do."


End file.
